Into the Dark
by BSparrow
Summary: Carol and Daryl are separated from the rest of the group during an attack on the prison. Warning: major character death.
1. Chapter 1

At first, there was only darkness. The complete absence of light and sound was peaceful, welcome. But, just as all peaceful moments since the earth descended into madness, it was short-lived.

As she sucked in a deep, gasping breath, she found herself shot back into awareness like a bullet from a gun. The world came crashing in around her in a symphony of writhing, burning pain so acute and so unexpected that, for a moment, it consumed her completely.

And then she was screaming, thrashing, fighting to free herself from a menace she could only feel, its iron grip tight around her body.

A harsh, familiar voice close to her ear stilled her almost instantly.

"It's me, Carol. Be still. It's alright, I got ya."

She felt herself being jostled and hoisted into position, heard him grunt with the effort of it, and realized she was cradled in his arms. The pain was radiating through her from some point in her middle, rolling across her in waves, but she knew she was safe in his arms.

Safe.

And then the darkness slithered in behind her eyes and, for a while, there was peace.

* * *

When she next opened her eyes, the world was still. The air was cold and the light was grey, the kind of pale watery shade that came with early morning.

She was settled in his lap, her ear pressed against his chest. She could hear the pounding, erratic drum beat of his heart and the soft rushing sound of air leaving his lungs.

The pain, she noticed, was still there but it had changed. Mutated. The sharpness of it had faded, settling into a pervasive, vicious ache deep in her bones.

Her head felt unwieldy, thick and sluggish as though her skull had been stuffed with cotton. But she managed to lift it, despite the ache in her neck, and found they were in a small room. It seemed to be a cabin of some sort, little more than a shed, with rough-hewn wood walls and floors. There was a small window on the wall above them and through it she could see the soft grey sky.

Daryl was slumped against the wall, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched. She could see pain etched into every rough, harsh line of his face. His eyes opened as she sat up, grimacing as her hand clutched his shoulder for support.

She was baffled when her fingers came away wet, dark and shiny in the pale morning light. She raised her eyes to his, lips forming words that wouldn't come.

And then, with the sharp scent of his blood in her nose, it all came rushing back so hard and fast that she felt like she was choking.

The war had come to them, slithering through the night like a snake in the grass. It was chaos, hell on earth. Gunshots, screaming, windows shattering. Blood. Dirt. Moaning walkers and grasping hands, a whole herd of them. Smoke, she couldn't see through all the smoke.

A baby crying.

Judith. She could hear her wailing at the top of her little lungs but she couldn't find her. She couldn't find any of them.

And then there had been nothing but pain.

She looked down to her side, where it had originated, and saw that blood had soaked through her shirt, spreading out in a wide arc around the ripped material and the torn flesh underneath it.

A memory flashed behind her eyes, clear as a bell. A walker shuffling through the smoke, stumbling forward and grasping at her shirt, her hips, a sharp pain, the feeling of falling, and then nothing.

And then the slippery feel of his blood on her fingers brought her back, drew her eyes to the ragged, ripped flesh of his shoulder. The realization settled in her chest, a heavy, hard knot under her ribs.

"We were-" her voice broke and she swallowed the rest of her sentence, unable to finish it.

She didn't need to. He nodded his head stiffly, just once, but it was like a punch to the gut.

So this was how it ended. This was how her story, their story, came to a close. Her eyes met his, her lips trembling as the sorrow washed through her, settling cold and heavy in her chest.

He shook his head, looking pained, "Aw, hell. Don't cry."

A quick bubble of laughter escaped her lips, rolling out on a choked sob. He was such a typical man; a time like this and crying still made him uncomfortable. Her shoulder and arm ached as she lifted her hand to wipe away the tears streaking down her cheeks.

"What about-what about everyone else?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

His uninjured shoulder hitched up in a shrug.

There was a bite to his voice, an edge of bitterness and pain as he replied, "Don't know. Got cut off – the herd got between us. Couldn't see a damn thing."

She nodded, his words slow to sink in through her muddled brain. They sat in silence for what seemed like an hour but was probably just a few moments.

"What-what do we do now?" she asked slowly, her voice trembling. "How-how long do you think we have?"

He met her eyes, chewing his bottom lip, "Don't know. How you feeling?"

"It hurts," she admitted, the pain flaring down her spine as she sat up straighter. "It-it hurts a lot. And my head – my brain just feels so…"

She couldn't find the words but he nodded sharply and she figured he understood. Another quiet moment passed.

"Do you think – do you think it'll be a long wait?" she asked shakily, filled with dread at the thought of sitting in that room for hours, waiting to die…waiting to become one of _them_.

He looked away. She saw a muscle in his jaw twitching and in the silence, she could hear his teeth grinding together.

He finally fixed her with a steady look, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, "We ain't gotta wait."

As he spoke, his trembling fingers brushed aside the hem of his shirt and, with some effort, pulled out his old handgun.

It was dark and ominous in his hand, like a black hole that seemed to suck up all the light in the room. She physically recoiled when she realized what he meant, what he intended.

His eyes darted across her face and then quickly away as he sat the gun down on the floor between them.

She stared at it, hit by a sudden memory that caught her off guard as it slashed through the fog hovering over her brain.

She'd thought about it before. Thought about putting a loaded gun to her head and pulling the trigger. Then, as now, blasting herself into oblivion seemed like the only escape. The only way out of a desperate, painful situation.

But she had come a long way since then. She was different now, so different, and she liked to think it was her newfound, emergent strength rather than that old, familiar weakness that made her hesitate at the sight of the gun.

"Think you can do it?" he asked quietly, his voice coming out hoarse.

She knew he was hurting just as bad as she was but he hid it well.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, unable to look away from the cruel weapon. "I don't know if I can even lift it."

He nodded for her to try and she reached out, wrapping hesitant fingers around the base of the gun. The metal was cold but it seemed to burn her palm as she lifted it from the floor. She winced as the weight of it pulled at her wrist, tugging at aching, weak bones.

She could feel his eyes on her as she tried to lift it, tried to turn it in her direction. But she couldn't. She didn't have the strength.

He saw her hesitation and reached out to take it from her, sliding it from her hand.

"You want me-" he began, then stopped to swallow hard, "you want me to do it?"

His words took her breath away. She sat, gaping at him for a moment.

"Do you-do you think you could?" she asked him, her voice unsteady.

She saw him thinking about it, knew what he must be picturing. And then she saw him wince, his eyes squeezing closed as if he'd been slapped across the face. She ached for him, unshed tears clawing at her throat.

She opened her mouth to tell him he didn't have to do it but before she could speak, his eyes opened and he nodded, his face tight and his expression determined as he told her, "I'll do what I gotta do."

She sat watching, wordless, as he released the magazine and checked the number of rounds left. She saw him grimace, just the quickest flinch, before slamming the magazine home and meeting her eyes. There was a hard, resigned set to his face that hadn't been there before.

"Okay?" she asked shakily and he nodded just once, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep, ragged breath.

"Would it-would it be easier if you waited until I passed out?" she asked uncertainly.

"Might not…might not be strong enough if we wait that long," he told her through clenched teeth and she could see how the pain was wearing on him, weakening him.

"So…now?"

His eyes met hers and she knew the answer even if he didn't.

But she wasn't sure how to face the end of her life. Even as the dead walked among them, even as death knocked at their door and slithered through their ranks, it had remained nothing more than an abstract concept. It was something to look out for, like dark clouds on the horizon.

But now the storm had rolled in, closer than it had ever appeared, and the rain was pouring down on her, cold on her face as it soaked her to the bone. And more than anything, it was surprising.

"I-I'm not ready to die," she said softly, her gaze catching on her hands.

She curled her fingers into a fist, watching the skin pull tight over her knuckles, and then stretched them out again. She turned her hand over, revealing the red stain seeping down her fingers and smeared across her skin, drying dark in the lines that crisscrossed her palm.

Her hand was trembling like a leaf, hovering in the air between them like an injured bird fighting to take flight. Without a word, he covered it with his own, bringing it to rest on his knee as he closed his fingers around hers.

"I ain't either," he confessed, his fingers tightening around hers. "Ain't never gonna be ready."

It seemed like no time had passed but she noticed the light streaming into the room had grown warm and bright. It looked like a beautiful, sunny day outside. Through the window above Daryl's head, she could see the clear, cloudless blue sky stretched over the green treetops.

It didn't seem right. It seemed as if the day should be grey and rainy but she supposed that the shining sun was proof that life would go on, was going on, without them.

Still they sat in silence, hands clasped, staring at the gun on the floor between them. In one moment she wanted to throw herself on the floor and cry, the next she wanted to scream her anger at the top of her lungs. But she did neither and he remained equally stoic. Silent.

Aware of the warmth of his calloused hand on hers, she met his eyes across the small gap between them. She'd felt him watching her and could only wonder what was going through his mind.

There was so much to say, so much she'd never had the courage or the time to tell him. And now the words wouldn't come, couldn't be found through the pain and growing fever gripping her brain.

"It-it wasn't supposed to be this way," she said carefully, pressing her lips together as tears filled her eyes, "There's so much I wanted to-"

He shook his head, withdrawing his hand from hers, "No need for all that."

She missed the comforting weight of it.

"But there is. We won't have another chance. I just – I just can't remember-"

He cleared his throat, wincing as he shifted his weight against the wall and jostled his injured shoulder, "Don't worry about it."

"I-" she began, then stopped to search for the words she knew must be hiding somewhere inside her head. "Just…thank you. Thank you for all you've done for me…for all of us."

His eyes met hers, dark voids that showed her the fear, the pain he'd always kept to himself.

"Hell of a lot of good I've done. Couldn't find your little girl, couldn't protect you," he cut himself off, his voice uneven. "I failed you again. Just like with-"

He stopped, couldn't say her name, and Carol felt a clenching, squeezing in her chest. He focused on the floor again, on the gun.

"I wasn't there," he continued bitterly. "I was too far away."

She wasn't sure if he was referring to her or to Sophia but it didn't matter.

Hand on his arm, she leaned forward to catch his eyes and said in a shaky voice, "Daryl, you never failed me. Not once."

His tongue snaked out to wet his dry, cracked lips as his eyes darted across her face, then back to the floor. She squeezed his arm and then sat back as another wave of pain shot through her.

"Not once," she repeated softly, wishing she could find more to say to him.

It was getting worse. She knew they didn't have long now if they were going to do it. The pain was spreading through her muscles, rising up from her bones to ooze through her blood. It had a grip on her brain and her chest, constricting her heart and her lungs until it was hard to breathe.

She searched through the fog, knowing there was something important in there. She sifted through names that had already slipped away, faces that were fading like old photographs, crumbling into dust and scattering in the breeze.

Except for one. A girl with soft hair, sharp shoulder blades, and a toothy smile. Her little girl, her Sophia. She held on to that one tightly, clinging to it. She'd take that one with her.

And another – the man across from her who was always fighting some internal battle she'd never been allowed to share. But as she thought about it, maybe she had. Maybe she had understood all along.

She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to scream, to drag herself to the door, to fight against death. Because there was no fighting it anymore. It was here and the time was now.

She nodded, ignoring the pain that rocketed down her spine as she sat up straighter, "Okay."

"You sure?" he asked, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

"Yes."

She saw his teeth clench, saw his muscles trembling with the effort of lifting the gun. And though it hurt in every way, she managed to wrap her fingers around his wrist, helping him center the gun on her forehead.

"You-" a shudder ripped through her, sending her teeth chattering, "you'll be right behind me?"

He hesitated for a moment, a million unreadable expressions flashing across his hardened face. She saw it soften, saw his whole body sag. But just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed.

He steeled his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and nodded, "Right behind you."

She nodded in return, barely aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to force her lips to turn upwards, to give him one last smile. There was fear and pain and sadness…but also, a strange peace now that the end was near. And he was there, he'd be right there with her the whole time.

She looked past the barrel of the gun and into his wet, red-rimmed blue eyes…and then there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of the gunshot echoed through the small room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears.

Pulling the trigger had taken every last bit of strength in his aching body. Muscles weak and trembling, he slumped back against the wall and dropped the gun to the floor. It was useless now that the last bullet had been spent.

Knowing what was coming, that had been a bitter pill to swallow. But as his hand landed on her soft, still leg, he knew he'd made the right decision. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing away the images that flashed behind them. At least he wouldn't have to live with them long.

Above his raging, pounding heartbeat, he heard a soft, muffled patter somewhere above him. Looking up, he saw a moth trapped inside by the window. Its dusky brown, paper-thin wings were beating against the glass in a vain effort to get to the light outside.

He'd intended to get up and walk out into the sunlight, to face death head-on, on his own terms. But now he knew it was too late, he'd waited too long, and now he didn't have the strength to even get to his knees. But he wasn't staying in that room with her. He knew what was coming, what that would mean.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the image of her lying there before him. That wasn't her. He didn't want to see her like that. She wasn't there. She'd already gone on ahead.

And so he started crawling, pulling his tired, weak body across the floor with his hands. He whimpered like a kicked dog, gasping for air as he dragged himself along inch by inch. It felt as though the muscles in his arms were tearing away, ripping and snapping from a bone that was crumbling, shattering like glass.

He felt every move pull at his torn shoulder, where a walker had just barely gotten its teeth in him as he bent over Carol. It wasn't much of a wound, not like hers, but it was enough. More than enough.

He was almost there. His lungs were burning, his heart pounding as though he'd run ten miles. And now the door stood between him and the outside. Just a simple door but it might as well have been Mt. Everest.

Gritting his teeth, he clawed at the door and grabbed for the knob, ignoring the screaming in his head as he pulled himself upright.

He cried out, the sharp sound echoing in the small, silent room as the pain whited out his vision. But then the door was open and he was outside, pulling it shut firmly behind him. Between him and her final resting place.

He could only hope it would help.

He slumped back against it, the world spinning around him.

The sun was bright overhead but he couldn't feel the warmth of it. His eyelids felt heavy, burning hot against his eyeballs.

He closed them for a moment, just a moment, and when he opened them again, the sun was higher overhead.

The light was brilliant, blinding white in his aching eyes. He tried to lift his hand to shield them but he couldn't even move his arm now.

And so he sat. Waiting.

Blinking, breathing, and waiting.

All the people he'd known and cared for were rushing through his scrambled brain, interspersed with fleeting images of gnashing teeth and milky eyes.

There was Rick standing tall…Lori with those brown eyes flashing…Carl begging to try out his cross-bow…Dale with that stupid damn hat of his…Andrea holding Amy…Glenn and Maggie sneaking off to the guard tower…T-Dog with his face turned up towards the sun…Hershel and his all-knowing eyes…Beth singing by the fire…Little Ass-kicker wrapping her tiny hand around his finger…his brother with a fishing pole in one hand and a beer in the other…his mama burned down to nothing…his daddy looming over him with a red face and bulging eyes.

Fire coursed through his veins and up his spine, licking at his brain until it sloshed in his skull. That'd be the fever, he thought.

At the mercy of the fleeting images, he found himself clinging to only one…a woman with a kind, hesitant smile and a scrawny little girl ever-clinging to her leg. He held it tight, closing his eyes on it and trapping it there in his mind. That had been something worth fighting for. He wished now that he'd fought a little harder.

But really, what good would it have done? Was there any other ending in this world?

He felts tears on his face, cool on his burning cheeks, and wanted to kick himself for crying like a baby instead of taking death like a man.

The fever was taking over. He could feel it. Probably wouldn't be long now. It was hot and aching, deep down inside him. Had him shivering, teeth chattering.

He hoped she wouldn't be mad at him when she got there first; when he wasn't right behind her like he'd promised. Because he was sure now that there was something, somewhere after this. He could damn near feel it. And there was some peace in knowing that she was probably already there, waiting for him.

She just – she might have a long wait. But she'd be okay. She'd forget quick 'cause her little girl would be there. They'd all be there.

Waiting.

His eyes were heavy. Too heavy to keep open anymore. They slipped closed, plunging him headlong into the darkness.

Just waiting.


End file.
